Ants on a Burning Log
by GoddessofSnark
Summary: He was not a nice man, not a brave man, he was a living man. Death waited for the cowardly, it hastened to take the brave, the gentle and the nice. He killed from the cover of shadow, he didn't have to worry about death.


A/N Don't own em, don't wanna own em, Snape just decided to rear his head to be a bastard. I blame Hemmingway for this entire piece, really I do. Bonus points if you get the title's reference.

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_The world breaks every one and afterward many are strong at the broken places. But those that will not break it kills. It kills the very good and the very gentle and the very brave impartially. If you are none of these you can be sure it will kill you too but there will be no special hurry. -A Farewell To Arms, Ernest Hemmingway_

The field was dark, lit only by the occasional brief flashes of light jutting out from the ends of wands. The ground was hard, and rapidly softening from the blood and excrement soaking into it as dying bodies lost what little muscle control they had, and with every step he took his boots sunk in just a little bit more, squelched just a little bit more as he drew closer and closer to the centre of the field. He stepped over a body lying with its eyes open, staring at the sky as if searching for the god that had forsaken them, a god that wouldn't come, that had left them out there to die at Golgotha.

He kicked the boy over, to stare down at the ground. The earth, after all, was the only thing that was real, that existed, better him stare at that than to be forever searching the sky for a lost cause. The longish red hair had become an ugly brown, matted with mud and blood. Better no one to see the pain wretched expression on the boy's face, a horrifying account of the last seconds of his life.

He didn't have to worry about suffering the boy's fate. Only the good die young. The brave die young. The brave die valiantly in the midst of battle, sacrificing themselves for a greater good. And he as neither a good man nor a brave man. He did not have to worry about facing death. Shakespeare had said that "The cowardly die a thousand deaths, the brave die but once" but that was a lie. The brave died a thousand times, they just never spoke of it, always willing to sacrifice themselves. It was that they gave themselves so thoughtlessly that a permanent death avoided them. The cowardly, in running from death, found that when it came up upon them, it stuck.

He found his way to the centre of the field, where two lone figures stood, duelling. The rest of the world seemed to have melted away, and he snuck through the brush to the small line of trees, to watch undisturbed. Every curse the man through out, the boy countered, and every spell the boy cast was flung off to the side. It was a well placed stunning spell, aimed from the trees, that finally shook the man enough for the boy to throw out an undeflected killing curse. It was the bolt of green light from the trees, however, that finally gave him peace.

He was not a nice man. He was not a brave man. He wouldn't have done that had he been face to face with the boy. He wasn't sure he could have. He wasn't sure he could have committed any of the murders he had had he been facing his victims. No, all of them were done from afar, done from behind. But that didn't bother him. He knew he was not a nice man. He knew he was not a brave man. And he was happy like that. As happy as he could be at least.

No one would know that the boy had died at his hand. No one would ever think about it. Everyone would think it to be the prophecy. That "neither may die while the other lives." That both had to die, that neither could survive. He got away with murder. He got his revenge on the boy that had made the past seven years hell, on the family that had done nothing but taunt him. He was not a nice man, he had his limits. Even saints had their limits. And he wasn't a saint.

So he walked away from the dark field, ready to enjoy the rest of his life and it would be a long life, death had no interest in him. Death had no interest in those that kill from the cover of shadow, afraid to strike when they could be struck back. He was not a brave man, not a valiant man, not a hero, he was a living man, and that was all that mattered to him. He had his life, he had been willing to run between both sides to ensure that no matter who won he would survive and he wasn't going to stop that now, he wasn't going to stop living because of some ill-conceived notion of honour or dignity. He was above that.

He ignored the body parts strewn around him, and their various owners, becoming more visible by the sun rising up behind the trees, starting to peak on the ground that had become a ruddy, sickly brownish-green from the blood staining it. He gave one last look, before disappearing into thin air. The press would be arriving soon, and he had no interesting in becoming food for those carrion crows.

The death of the boy would soon be forgotten, the death was insignificant. He could have just as likely been killed crossing the street to get to a pub to celebrate, by a stray rock, a falling piano. It was simply the boy's time. It's easy to forget emotion in favour of rationalization, easy to stare death in the eye when you believe in fate. He had spent the past decade protecting the boy, putting up with his taunts, his insults, the same way he had endured the boy's father. He deserved his taste of revenge.

He sat, leaning, relaxing on the threadbare couch, smiling slightly to himself something that he rarely did and that strained his face to pull the lips up into something that looked something better, more relaxed than a smirk. He had a good glass of scotch in his hand. He was happy now, content. He may not be a good man, a nice man, but he was alive, and that was all that mattered to him.


End file.
